


This House

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Dead Men Fics [4]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Contains Numerous Swear Words, First War With Mevolent, Gen, Ghastly POV, Past Tense, Post Lord Vile, the Dead Men look after each other ... kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: Skulduggery comes back from his five-year long sojourn. Ghastly knows his friend must have done something terrible. He opens his door to him anyway.This isn’t really about Skulduggery though - a man with too much anger and too little compassion. This is about Ghastly Bespoke, who had lost a father and mother and brother and yet is still kind, and good, and decent.
Relationships: Ghastly Bespoke & Anton Shudder, Ghastly Bespoke & The Dead Men
Series: Dead Men Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672435
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Quote Prompt Memes





	This House

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [quoteonlyprompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/quoteonlyprompts) collection. 



> The title comes from the song by Grace Petrie of the same name. Happy (belated) Pride Month folks!
> 
> This was inspired by the prompt from anonymous on Quote Prompt Memes: "I don't want to be myself, that person's a monster. So tell me who you want me to be and that's who I will be."

Ghastly had not requested leave. It had been forced upon him, in much the same way as a parent would give a child medicine. The Dead Men had assured him they could continue working one man down. Morwenna had been firm when she had ordered him to take time off. Ghastly was a gentleman, when he could be. He did not argue when he saw they all were adamant, and certainly did not curse them. He simply bundled together his knitting needles and assorted possessions and travelled to Dublin. By rights Skulduggery would be here with him, to walk into the dusty emptiness of his parents’ shop and apartment. But Pleasant was gone, and Ghastly had finally given up on searching for him, and so he went alone.

Alighting from the horse-drawn carriage, Ghastly hesitated on the stone footpath. Above him swung the sign of his father’s shop, rusty but untouched. His father was dead so long ago now that it didn’t hurt so much as make Ghastly quietly sad. The shop provoked the same emotions. After Ghastly’s father had died, Anton had carved sigils into its walls to prevent entrance or destruction by mortals, for they were still fighting in Europe at the time. The shop had stood and decayed.

A woman with her hair knotted up on her head bustled past. She wore dirtied clothes, but there was disgust in her eyes when she looked at Ghastly’s face. Ghastly looked at her and smiled, doffing his hat.

“Hullo, madam.”

The woman looked away. Ghastly watched her go. Apparently, Dublin hadn’t changed much at all.

When Ghastly had left the shop for the last time it had been well cleaned. He had taken care to sweep away all dust, and put everything in its correct place. He unlocked the front door with a thick bronze key, and coughed when he opened the door. Looking into the room, with the dust and cobwebs and smell, Ghastly Bespoke came to a swift decision. He put down his bags in the doorway, checked he had his coin purse, and swiftly retreated to go off in search of lunch.

After he ate lunch in a small tavern full of working men, he returned to his shop and began to clean. Ghastly was no slacker. He was not one of those men who had been brought up to expect the womenfolk to do all the cleaning. His mother had often been working, so his father and young Ghastly cooked dinner and cleaned the house together.

It hurt to see the shop empty, so Ghastly focused on what he needed to do immediately. Sweep out the floors and remove the cobwebs. Keep an eye out for old floorboards or rotting roof beams. Try not to think of that first day, when Skulduggery had stayed over for dinner, a lanky seventeen-year-old lad. Ghastly’s father had liked Skulduggery well enough, but it had been his mother – Ciara – who had taken him under her wing.

Ghastly, on his knees on the thick wooden boards, dust all over his breeches, exhaled slowly, and continued to scrub the floor. He cleaned the main shopfront until it was bearably grimy, and didn’t bother to inspect the upper level. He slept on the floor with his head on his bag.

Five days into Ghastly’s cleaning spree, someone knocked on the door. Ghastly must not have heard it at first, for the knocks soon became bangs. Ghastly extricated himself from the delicate task of removing mouse dropping from the stairs, dusted his hands, and grabbed the closest weapon before approaching the door. The wards hadn’t been activated, but Ghastly checked the peephole even so. Then he opened the door, lowering his knife.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Ghastly,” Dexter said. Shudder stood silently beside him. “May we come in?”

Ghastly crossed his arms. He remembered the shame of being forced out of action, the way he had flushed like a pre-surge youth. None of the Dead Men had protested Ghastly’s removal.

“What do you want?”

Dexter was wearing his civilian’s clothing. White shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, black suspenders and brown trousers. Ghastly had made all those articles of clothing.

Dexter’s gaze was firm. “I wanted to apologise.”

Shudder nodded once, beside Vex. The man was holding a wicker basket in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He held them up.

“And I brought cake,” Anton said.

Ghastly blinked, and opened the door. “Come in. Be careful where you step.”

The two walked in, not particularly carefully, and Ghastly locked the door. He grinned when he heard Dexter’s exclamation of surprise.

“Ghastly, this is a death trap.”

“I’m fixing it,” he called back, and walked into the shop to find the two settling gingerly onto chairs. “Well, come on, where’s the cake?”

Shudder procured a large sponge cake from the bag, and a knife to accompany it. The implement looked suspiciously similar to one of the daggers Saracen carried, but Ghastly didn’t mention that. He pulled out a chair instead.

“How are you, Ghastly?” Dexter asked.

“Spectacular,” he said.

Dexter ran a hand through his blond hair. He’d cut it recently, so that it was short and spiky and couldn’t be pulled during a fight.

“Look, we were worried. It wasn’t meant as a _slight_ , making you take a holiday.”

“How else was I supposed to take it?” Ghastly swallowed, took a moment. “What good am I, if I’m not fighting? What use?”

“Don’t start thinking like that,” Dexter said, sharp in tone and gaze. “You are so much more than this war, and you will have a life after it.”

Ghastly’s mother had said something similar, when Ghastly and Skulduggery and Erskine had wanted to sign up to fight. Hopeless had already done so, without telling any of them, and that had been the final of many factors pushing them to join. Erskine had already worked for Deuce for a while, helping Meritorious collect intelligence, but he hadn’t been part of the army. Ciara Oscuro had looked up at her sons, quietly, face resigned. She had made them promise to look after each other.

Some two hundred years later, Skulduggery Pleasant was dead twice over. It was laughable how badly Ghastly had failed.

“Let’s have cake,” Dexter said with a sigh, and so they did.

The wicker basket miaowed. This was not exactly expected, but Ghastly did not leap in surprise or even blink. Instead, his eyes moved slowly toward the offending object.

“Do you have another present for me?” He asked wryly.

“No!” Dexter exclaimed.

Anton snorted, and opened the lid to let a grey cat out. It purred the moment it was free, and Shudder solemnly passed the animal to Dexter, who cuddled it protectively.

“Why do you have a cat in a basket?”

“His name is Rooster,” Dexter said, which was not an answer.

“Larrikin named it?”

“Larrikin named it.” Dexter smiled down at the animal. “He has a way with words, doesn’t he?”

Ghastly looked at the animal. Its eyes were shut and it was batting Dexter’s hand gently as he pet it.

“Why did you bring it here?” He asked, warily.

“He wanted to see Dublin,” Dexter said, setting it on the ground. He stood and dusted his hands. “Now, what do you need us to clean?”

“The rooms upstairs need doing over,” Ghastly said, still watching the cat as it stretched its back and examined the shop’s interior.

“I’ll go do that then,” Dexter said, and he strode off toward the stairs. “Have a good chat, gentlemen.”

Anton and Ghastly exchanged wary glances, and Vex saw it and laughed before he disappeared upstairs.

“You should take it as a compliment,” Anton said quietly.

“What?”

Anton’s eyes were cold, but that didn’t mean he was angry necessarily. His eyes were always cold. “Not everyone in this war has people who care enough to make sure they are safe.”

Ghastly frowned and stood. Something banged upstairs, and he heard Dexter’s muffled curse. There was a kettle on the wood stove – tea had been a primary priority – and Ghastly opened the door and lit the logs with a click of his fingers.

“I doubt you would have liked being treated like a burden yourself,” he said.

“No one called you that,” Anton said.

“Help me make the tea,” Ghastly said.

Shudder stood and found the mugs while Ghastly retrieved the milk from the ice box. Dexter had started banging upstairs again. It was quite loud. Perhaps Ghastly should have warned him about the pests upstairs. Rooster, startled by the noise, ran under Anton’s feet, miaows bouncing with each step. They both ignored the commotion.

“Look after yourself,” Anton said. It wasn’t a threat, nor a plea, but something in between the two. Ghastly put a hand on the man’s shoulder a moment, chest heavy.

“I will try,” he promised.

The banging increased and then Dexter was back downstairs. He had a broom in one hand.

“There are rats up there.”

“Really? I thought it was just mice.”

“ _Rats_.” Dexter said. “They carry the plague, you know.”

“The ones upstairs mightn’t,” Ghastly offered. “Anyway, who said rats carry the plague?”

“ _Larrikin_ did,” Dexter said pointedly. Larrikin was an expert on all things related to illness.

“I’ll sort it out,” Anton said gruffly. “One of us needs to be a _real_ man.”

“Say what you really think,” Dexter muttered, as Anton walked upstairs, taking the broom.

Ghastly passed Dexter his cup of tea. He sipped it. They both waited. It wasn’t long until Shudder returned.

“One of them looked at me with evil eyes,” he said.

“Alright,” Ghastly said, with a put-upon sigh that turned into a smile. He found the rat traps he’d bought that morning, and scooped the cat up in his free hand. It didn’t snarl or bite him, miracle of miracles. “I’ll deal with it.”

Dexter left the cat when the two Dead Men departed for the front. Ghastly had protested, but Dexter had looked at him imploringly. Pets could not be taken on mission, and apparently Larrikin couldn’t bear to be parted from the animal permanently. The first night after they left, Ghastly drunk his tea and sewed and let the animal sleep on his lap. It kicked as it dreamt.

One rainy night someone rapped on the door. Ghastly was used to late nights, so he heard it, and opened the door. He froze, just for a moment, and blinked at the figure before him.

“You know,” Ghastly said, and though he felt shaky his voice was calm. “You’re my third visitor in three days.”

Skulduggery was looking at Ghastly intently. He didn’t know how he could tell, but this was his brother, even without a face. The light from within Ghastly’s shop lit up Skulduggery’s skull.

“Well,” Ghastly said, after the pause lengthened into what could be accurately described as silence. “Are you coming in?”

Skulduggery walked into the shop as if he was about to be shot. They both stopped in the main room. Skulduggery’s head turned as he examined the place. He even stepped forward to place a hand on the half-finished shirt on the working bench. His presence felt wrong, unnatural. Of course Ghastly’s best friend, his brother, would return only after Ghastly had accepted that he must be dead.

“You cleaned the place up.”

Skulduggery was choosing his words carefully. It was like his voice had somehow grown rust. The sound of it was not as smooth as it used to be.

“Yes,” Ghastly said. “You weren’t there to help.”

“No, I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Where were you? Were you captured?”

“I was … travelling.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us you were alive?” Ghastly asked.

“I’m not alive,” Skulduggery said sharply. He turned. “No. I am sorry. I needed to be away from you all. I needed to clear my head.”

It felt like an underhand blow, a punch to the abdomen, a clip to the back of the head. Skulduggery had left them, despite knowing it would hurt them all – would hurt _Ghastly._ Looking at his friend, Ghastly realised something. Skulduggery must have done something absolutely reprehensible, to have left the way he had.

“You bastard,” Ghastly said. He did not hit the skeleton; that would only bruise his fists and make him feel guilty to the bargain. “You selfish, fucking bastard. How dare you come back to me after five years as if nothing has happened? Larrikin cried, you shit.”

“Larrikin cries about dead birds.”

Ghastly inhaled. “Don’t jest about your friends thinking you were _dead_.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“And _stop_ apologising.”

Skulduggery nodded, uncertainty in all the sharp lines of his body.

“Sit down,” Ghastly said, tiredly.

They both sat down at the table, and Ghastly examined his friend carefully. The skeleton noticed, and stilled. He was not lounging in his chair, as he had used to do. Instead, his gloved hands were clasped, and his skull tilted forwards. For a moment, Ghastly wished Skulduggery was flesh and blood, and not for the ordinary reasons. He would like to see the expression on his face, instead of having to deduce his emotions from his posture.

Skulduggery’s voice was still rougher than it should have been.

“I do not …” he started, paused. “I don’t want to be me. I am a monster. I can’t be that way anymore. I cannot. Not after Ciara …”

Ghastly felt the physical need to cry, then. So Skulduggery did know about his mother’s death. He had not attended her funeral.

“Ghastly,” Skulduggery said. “Tell me who you want me to be. Tell me what you need me to do. I will do whatever you ask me to do. I will be whoever you need me to be.”

Something within Ghastly eased, not entirely, but enough. He reached out to put his palm on Skulduggery’s clasped hands. Skulduggery jolted, but didn’t push his scarred hand away.

“I need you to _never_ leave me like this again.” Ghastly said slowly. “I won’t ever welcome you back, if you do.”

Skulduggery didn’t respond immediately. Ghastly started to pull away.

“All right,” Skulduggery said.

“I need you to be honest, from now on.”

“I shall try,” the skeleton said, wryly.

“And I need some help setting up the shop.” Ghastly added. “There’s a lot of dusting to do. You’re taller than me, you can reach the rafters.”

Skulduggery’s head swivelled. “You’re not going back to the fight?”

“Not until they ask me back. Though I should send them a letter to let them know you’re still alive.”

Ignoring that, Skulduggery slowly relaxed. “Why aren’t you fighting?”

“General Crow put me on leave.”

“Ah. You didn’t want to, then. Why did she do that?”

Ghastly looked at him.

“Nevermind,” Skulduggery said, and picked up the half-sewn shirt. “This is nice. Is it for me?”

Ghastly pulled the garment away from him. There was anger, low in his chest, but relief too. Skulduggery being a dick was just an ordinary occurrence, something Ghastly had tolerated for centuries.

“You come back for five minutes and you’re already impossible,” Ghastly grumbled.

“Can I stay?” Skulduggery asked, the lilt of his voice uncertain.

Something twisted deep in Ghastly’s chest, in the spot where fear and nerves always lodged. He stood up and embraced Skulduggery.

“Of course you can,” Ghastly said.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments make my day!
> 
> It's occurred to me that the majority of my fics end with someone comforting the other. This is a problem. I should finish my next fic with someone getting punched in the face, to even it all out.
> 
> I hope Ghastly's perspective was believable here, and that Skulduggery's characterisation worked!


End file.
